


*slaps android* This bad boy can fit so much trauma in it!

by pinkpompom



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpompom/pseuds/pinkpompom
Summary: Connor is acting strange(r than usual), and Hank starts to feel his mind giving in to temptation.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	*slaps android* This bad boy can fit so much trauma in it!

**Author's Note:**

> This is like 30% of a fic I had intended to write almost 2 years ago and completely forgot about, recently discovered deep in my notes app 🤦♀️ Figured I may as well share it here!

It is some time after 2AM when Hank walks in the door, quietly placing his keys on the table before locking the door behind him. It’s not like Connor “sleeps”, but he can’t help but feel he has to be quiet at this time. Even if Connor’s in stasis, it feels rude to just barge in and make noise. 

He leaves the lights off, his body throwing long shadows across the house from the moonlight behind him. Shucking his jacket onto one of the kitchen chairs, Hank carefully walks into the house, puts his phone down on the table, and turns to check if Connor is on the couch.

He’s not. He’s on the floor.

Connor’s done this a couple times before, and Hank never knew what to do then either. So he just stares for a moment, wondering how long he’s been like that.

Connor lies in the middle of the room, on the floor as if it were the most normal place to be. His hands held tightly just inches from his face, resting on a tightly bent thumb against his forehead, wrists bent almost unnaturally at an angle Hank found unsettling to look at. His LED red and whirring as fast as Hank has ever seen it, lighting up the room, flickering and strobing in the dark. Eyes glassy and empty, Connor stares vacantly past the ceiling, as if he were searching for something written in the textured popcorn ceiling, his mind working so hard to decipher it. He looks out of place, like a surrealist painting, like a dead body in daylight, and god if it doesn’t tear at Hank’s heart and mind; what is he supposed to do?

The clock on the wall ticks every second, each one feeling slightly more jarring than the last, every moment drawing the scene out in uncomfortable silence.

“Con?” Hank takes a ginger step forward, his eyes glued to the LED flickering away. “You okay? What’re you doing there?”

Connor doesn’t move, his body looks almost rigid and statue-like. Hank wonders if he’s in stasis, but why would he go into stasis on the floor?

“Connor.” Hank tries to be more assertive, although not finding it easy, knowing Connor’s programming always did respond better to orders. “Get up.”

No response.

Hank sighs, scrubbing a palm over his face in exasperation. He takes a few more steps before kneeling down on the hard wood, hesitating to reach out and touch his shoulder. Is this okay? Would he be startled? Or do androids not get startled?

He does it anyway, tentatively, just the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of Connor’s shoulder. “Con…” He whispers, voice caught somewhere in the back of his throat. He suddenly feels uneasy, the strobing light washing the room in red, bouncing off the walls and television screen, feeling more like a crime scene than his own home.

Connor doesn’t so much as blink.

Withdrawing his hand, Hank recalls the night Connor slapped his face to wake him, and while the thought does cross his mind, he knows it more than likely wouldn’t give him the same result. Androids don’t need “sobering up” like humans, and whatever this is, isn’t anything like too much whiskey.

So he stares, the red light dancing across the pale skin of Connor’s face, casting ghostly shadows from his nose, catching every eyelash, drawing lines down his cheeks. He stares, the deep brown of Connor’s eyes lost in the dark, fixed on the ceiling, unmoving, unblinking, unfeeling. He looks like wax, his chest not even moving from simulated breath.

Hank feels goosebumps on his neck. He takes a shaking breath, resolving to give it one last attempt before going to bed, although he’s not sure he’ll sleep so well knowing there’s a comatose android on his living room floor. He places a firm palm this time on Connor’s shoulder, instinctually expecting some sort of warmth to bleed through the fabric, but feeling nothing. He squeezes, fingers pressing into carbon fibre bone, and it’s haunting how empty it feels. He wonders if his skin is like that, if it’s cold and if it feels real.

Before he knows what he’s doing, the same palm has found its way to Connor’s cheek, and his breath hitches. His thumb strokes over a single freckle, feeling the smoothness of artificial skin and peach fuzz, and he sighs. He doesn’t know how to even articulate it for himself, let alone put it into words eloquent enough for a supercomputer android, but he knows what this is. It’s longing; and every day that’s passed since Connor deviated has grown more challenging than the last. Hank feels it, somewhere deep and hidden, somewhere he drowns with a bottle, somewhere he knows better than to go looking into. Hank feels the pressure growing, and this moment, stroking Connor’s cheek without his consent, just reminds him how fucking broken he is. He feels shame, hot and revolting in his gut, reminding him of the mess he is and how little he deserves the privilege of even touching something so perfect and capable.

Connor’s eyes dart sideways, enlarged pupils reflecting in the dark like a cat.

Falling back on his ass, Hank shouts, hands shaking. “Jesus FUCK, Connor!” He takes a deep breath, heart thrumming in his ears. “You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor blinks, hands slowly coming away from his face, pushing himself up to stand at his full height over Hank. It’s menacing, and Hank feels himself shudder at the six foot tall android staring down at him.

“I was processing.” Connor says simply, tone flat and even, his face holding the same placid expression it always seemed to. “I apologize if I alarmed you, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah you sure fucking alarmed me,” Hank scoffs, standing to meet the android towering over him. “How long were you uh, ‘processing’ for? I just came home like,” He checks his watch, realizing he’s spend the last fifteen minutes sitting on the ground. “… at like two.”

Connor’s eyes flick away for a split second before responding. “Approximately six hours and twenty seven minutes.”

Hank snorts. “You’re kidding. You were lying on the ground, in the dark, for almost seven hours? What the fuck, Connor?” He looks around the room for a moment. “And where the hell is Sumo? I thought I left you here to take care of him, not have a fucking android stoner sesh on the floor.”

“If I’m correct, he is currently sleeping on your bed.” He pauses for a moment, hands clasped behind his back in a way that always made Hank uncomfortable. “And what is an ‘android stoner sesh’, might I ask?” Connor’s face narrows minutely.

“Whatever the hell you were just doing for the last seven hours, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

Connor says nothing, his expression faltering for only a moment. He looks almost… hurt?

“Look, uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know how androids work, I just—“

“It’s fine.”

“Uh,” Hank scratches his neck nervously. “If you say so.”

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, right. Just um,” Hank clears his throat. “You can just call me Hank at home, y’know.”

Connor paces to the couch, taking a seat, his back now turned to Hank. “Goodnight, Hank.”

“Night, Con.”


End file.
